Parenting: What It Takes
Parenting is an uneasy task. In a world dominated by the emerging popularity of being single, having children out of wedlock and having to raise children after being divorce, parenting, in terms of the commitment of the man and his spouse is growing thin, each and every passing day.
Parenting is the chosen task taken up by a man, woman or both to handle the responsibility of appropriately raising children (biological or adoptive) in ways that conform to their given standards and principles with the aim of rearing them to become productive to society. It takes maturity on the
part of the man, woman or both to painstakingly and assiduously nurture children. Parenting involves a great deal of sacrifices and commitments by either party to ensure their children gets the attention, love, care and basic needs met.
What makes parenting, particularly by both parties, work is when the man and his spouse have chosen to value trust and communication in the things they do which are connected to their children. The understanding of each other's demeanor will go a long way in administering the attention their
children would get. For instance, a wayward woman will not be able to understand what it means when raising a child whose demeanor is rather hostile. A man who is not always around will not understand what it means for his spouse to sit down with their child to give utmost attention.
In a world where one would have to spend longer hours at work to make ends meet, parenting becomes a difficult task as the time or attention for children would hardly be available. Each and every passing day, the work world is embraced by more attention to machines, keeping at bay what parents need to do at home. Hence, it would take wisdom to actually strike a feasible balance between meeting up with working
demands and attending to matters of the home, particularly the mental upkeep of children. Communication and trust between two parents would have to be necessary for such balance to be created. In other words, ensuring each other’s responsibility towards the upkeep of their children as they are faced with demands at work would have to be a priority.
Parenting takes discipline to cultivate. It is very hard trying to
raise children with different traits and peculiar abilities. It would take extra effort on the part of the woman parent to always ensure that her disabled son does not feel rejected by or isolated from his peers. It would take a wise father to make sure all that are required to pay up his daughter's tuition fees and other related academic expenditures are met, despite having to pay debts incurred.
In a time where divorce, separation and single parenting prevails, the involvement of either the woman or man in fostering a healthy physical, mental and spiritual growth of his or her children becomes a huge challenge as matters concerning their personal health comes to focus due to stress encountered in the place of work.
True parenting takes the involvement of a man and his spouse and the choice to painstakingly and wisely see to the upbringing of their children through communication and trust in faith.
The Loan
By Steven Hill
It comes back to me in pieces,
in reflective bites over breakfast cereal—
the smile of moonlit miles,
walks under freckles of stars
two bodies, folded in a hammock,
childish words for you, carved in a tree
so close, the summer grass as we crawled.
And we rubbed, I and thou,
cheek to cheek,
hair to hair,
cheek hairs brushed by dew,
drizzle like feather clouds
like memories of my baby blanket,
star-crossed patterns peering
at each other through our
windows—
what marvelous shelters,
you and I,
what a lighthouse,
what a beacon glowed within you and
beamed out at me
through your windows.
And then—suddenly—it was all gone. Poof!
This life is on loan, it turns out.
What we thought was ours belongs somewhere else,
drifted back home
leaving a pile of bones and
scattered remains, ashes, chalky petroglyphs
shards of pottery
and a long trail of relations like ribbons
to carry on with what they too have borrowed.
Dandelion’s time had come to leave upon the wind,
not returning when spring
pushed up through the soil again.
We thought we would all live on the same block forever,
a shady cul-de-sac with
a box elder swaying over the creek,
the water feigning timelessness,
tree rings to infinity.
But a storm got the elder, the years dried the creek,
your kiss became a memory
our conversation a hushed prayer,
the doctor’s words a trace
whispering through the moonlit lace,
the last light I saw reflected in your graying eyes
showed the telephone disconnected,
the boisterous neighborhood grown silent
bat and ball, lifeless in the on-deck
a field no longer sown,
the grandfather clock chiming
over a hearth gone cold.
Everything in its own way announces the final curtain,
we trowel a foundation,
mark ourselves with a lifetime of endeavor
and then we are called to relinquish the monument;
no, it relinquishes us
Dull chatter in the background, announcing itself at the door,
with a rap and a rude harrumph,
waistcoat fastidious on the coach driver,
ah yes, the coach awaits, the door creaks open,
passage for one.
It’s a marathon and then
nothing,
silhouette instead of stone,
the universal groan,
pace yourself, passage for one,
you won’t be takin’ it with you,
this life is on loan.
Mimesis
upon a saint’s grave lies a litany of prayer
dissolving into a pound of soil. what scrapes
from a faithful pilgrim with white bird in his
chest & white beards on his jaws than juicy
flesh, to show him dead? i’ve walked into
dreams to understand what desertion means:
perhaps, is it the frozen lake a wild hog melts
into like a piece of his culture he carries on his
nose? who says we don’t admire God, we do?
Or perhaps, we admire the flower that breathes
behind His throne, too. you see? Even the angels
have a garden of light they pluck breath from,
like snowballs, as snow men. what silences a
graveyard isn’t the presence of dead bodies but
the absence of humans’ scent. i wonder if tearing
a spiderweb means ruining his home and casting
its bangles out into the cold, like a refugee, like
how my mother sheds off the skin of her local
color & nail a husk that reeks of modernism on
her ears. do these children know that local drums
have the voices they weave into our ears? & do re
mi aren’t just notes but a series of hushed voices
waiting to be touched by hands cold and frozen
interpretation. i don’t remember if my lineage pane-
gyrics starts with my father’s name or his father’s,
or his father’s father yet i do know, this language is
nested into the water that drizzles beneath my legs.
iyawo n lota (the bridesmaid is grinding pepper)
ileke n saso (the beads on her waist her grumbling)
ileke ma saso mo (beads, grumble no more)
je ki iyawo lota (let the bride grind pepper.)
i wonder if this song ever fall from mother’s tongue
like mockingbirds fall into the palm of their deaths.
Sunday T. Saheed, the author of Rewrite the Stars, is a 17-year-old Nigerian writer, and a Hilltop Creative Arts Foundation member. He was the 1st runner-up for the Nigerian Prize for Teen Authors, 2021. His works have appeared or are forthcoming on Rough Cut Press, Brittle Paper, The Comstock Review, Salamander Ink, Aster Lit, The Lumiere Review, Poemify, Afrocritik, My Woven Poetry, Arts Lounge, SprinNG, Rigorous mag, Kissing Dynamite, Beatnik Cowboy, Trouvaille Review, Augment Review, Spirited Muse Press, Gyroscope, Giallo Lit, Open Skies Quarterly, Kalahari, Cajun Mutt, Open Leaf Press Review, Re Side, de Curated and others. He is also an asst. editor for The Nigeria Review (TNR). He was shortlisted for the Wole Soyinka International Cultural Exchange, 2018, The New Man Gospel Poetry Contest and BKPW Poetry Contest, 2022. He can be read on linkfly.to/sundaysaheed or reached on Instagram @poetsundaysaheed
JURISPRUDENCE: COLLATERAL DAMAGE
A well-regulated militia…
The goal is clear: no standing army here
in this new country. None. If there is need,
just fill the ranks with farmers, merchants, men
bringing their own muskets. Then, disband
when battle’s won. At least, that was the plan.
Today’s lawmakers make no laws to hold back
trigger-fingers itching to be free.
A teen in Texas purchases two rifles,
semi-automatics, rounds of ammo.
No questions asked. Just “happy 18th birthday!”
So kid shoots grandma in the face, then speeds
to school, kills 19 trapped 4th Graders
and two teachers. Stops only when he’s shot.
Now come the questions; now, when it’s too late.
Just six months into 2022,
why 27 school shootings? Why?
Why should gunmen terrorize our lives?
Shootings in grocery stores, shootings in bars,
shootings in cinemas, shootings at spas,
shootings in synagogues, churches and mosques…
Freeway shootings, subway shootings,
shootings on the street.
A grudge. A gun. A ton of searing grief.
From politicians, waffling words and shrugs.
“What can you do?” blindfolded leaders bleat.
“Some people are just bad. Unhinged. Insane.
They’re broken. Laws can’t fix them. Yes, it’s sad.”
Does Congress realize that almost half
the guns on earth are here, within our borders?
A well-regulated militia…
The wording is a clue. Suggests a choice.
Regulations. Rules devised to curb
the leading cause of death for children: guns.
1.
Today we have an army. We don’t need
recruits bringing a blunderbuss to boot camp,
or citizens stockpiling snipers’ rifles.
If our domain becomes well-regulated,
what works for other countries might work here.
Fewer shattered families.
Less grief-without-end.
A small price to pay
for fewer small coffins,
fewer urns of ashes kept like shrines.
Copyright 5/2022 Patricia Doyne
UVALDE: THE LUCKY ONES
Shots explode from somewhere.
Is this real?
Teacher hustles kids inside.
Locks the classroom door.
Lights off.
Kids have practiced lockdown.
But this is not a drill.
Hit the floor.
Get under a desk, if you can.
Shh!
No shoving, no poking, no whispering.
Hold still. Keep quiet.
Pretend this is an empty classroom
The shooter breaks glass.
Sprays bullets through the window.
Teacher is hit in the leg.
Makes no sound.
Kids see her bleed.
Freeze,
too scared to whimper.
A child also bleeds,
grazed by a bullet.
Clenches her teeth.
The shooter hears no response.
Moves on.
Time stretches.
Every minute is endless.
Darkness fills with breathing.
Keep quiet.
Hope he won’t come back.
Hope to get out of here alive.
Hope friends are okay.
Can’t text—can’t risk a light.
Hope.
Close by, sudden gunfire.
Shouts. Screams.
More shots.
What is going on?
Who got shot?
A brother? A sister? A friend?
In the dark,
someone begins sobbing.
But no one moves.
He’s out there somewhere.
He might come back.
Time drags on.
Why doesn’t someone do something?
Call the cops?
Get that bad guy?
Let us out of here?
More shots.
When will this end?
Why is he shooting at us?
Can’t someone help us?
Anyone?
Anyone at all?
Quick Write 5/24/22
Sitting at their desks, in the quiet before the storm,
They listened to their teachers. They looked back on a lessening pandemic year,
With parents and grandparents and friends finally within touch.
They sat at their desks in a classroom. The last day of school
They looked forward to summer to freedom to playing and to time with friends
In a lessening pandemic year.
They felt safe.
Children.
Someone’s child.
Someone’s sister. Someone’s brother
Someone’s best friend.
Someone’s everything.
Someone knew these children from birth
And held them and kissed them and snuggled them and treasured them.
Maybe they were lucky at home and had meals everyday
And had parents who knew where they were all the time
And had friends who cared if they talked to them and played with them and ate with them.
Maybe they were less lucky and had one parent or one person who looked after them.
Maybe they were happy to be in school because the other place they could be was not as good.
But they were all together in the classroom. All together at the same time.
And then they weren’t. They were not spared. They were suddenly not safe.
They were suddenly not children. First they were, then they weren’t.
And someone might not have been a mother any more. Or a father.
Can we be parents if we don’t have children?
And then it was over.
PSALMS 22:19
After Shedrack Bulus
To the tongue that cradles on wounds,
every poem holds a hammer against my
body. Which means, this body lacks a body, sometimes, it is a garden & other times, it's a flower — Perfect paradox saying; the things I once admired now plague on me. Maybe, this is how a body translate to a graveyard. Again, cast me to a river & I'll comeback a sand, scars & death close dialect engulfing a body. Every morning I trust my knees for
Grace, but bleeds still flaunt out of me like a spring bee. & these scars too renders me a sacrificial lamb. Tell me, what mouth will remember me & still gospel how to read a poem before a congregation of grief?. The priest said, Son, learn how to build a tower for your scars. Perhaps, I remember— even the Bible pulled pigs out of a body. Say, to nurture a body for moths. Grace tarry & everything ends in science. At least to saviour a body. I, a rotten flesh hunting for hope at feet of a round rope. This poems breaks & clouds this body to a dust. Lord, won't you undress me to a butterfly? Now that blood still wets my knees on breaking tarmacs.
____________________________________________________________________________________________
I CHRISTENED MY BODY A HOME
At night,
I briefcased my unbelief into the
esophagus of my stepmother. Nothing
defines a boy more than grief. & I, too.
My body have cocoon myriad lightless
stars, which often deduced me to a prosaic equation, I mean something poor devoid of brilliance— Emptiness filled
me to the edge, & I bend like a crayfish.
Which is to say, my body still clings on rotten roses. I lost a sight of myself, & my cousin is now an acronym mouthed by birds. Tell me, In what way can i unbuilt this body?. Perhaps, this poem is modern. Here, everything labyrinths to a requiem, grief, bullet, or whatever can murder. & say, a rose fading to a scar, My shadow bounced back at me. My body shriveled to a room with sharp shards. All wanting to cut & open me to a naked wound. Yesterday, i met God in the flickering of a crescent, I wanted to split this body before his presence, To unfold my soul to a faith. But, here, not everything bring peace. So i relinquished my simulacrum to the mirror & christened my body a home.
___________________
Anderson Moses, nicknamed (Son of Moses) is a poet from a small village in Akwa Ibom State, Nigeria. He's a student of History and International studies. He's works have been published/forthcoming in Brittle paper, Nantygreens, Eboquills, Arts lounge and elsewhere. Apart from writing, he enjoys snapping images.
Seasoned ritual
What these lights exclaim—
a commonplace of forms
in pronouncement of death.
They wander untruths
hollered foregone
of a solstice
established
a season of touch.
Their dross is predicate
to a remonstrance performed;
shaping as best
that fathom of force cultured
from specks unjustness shines
on bathed nights lacked their lustre.
(Here a life extolled; there
a dream extinguished).
Now so foreign we’re
stepping over the timed-in chants
to fend for places consenting
rest from
what reasons that ask it
of celebrations intolerance begets,
that is how to exercise rhythms
their shod worthiness proclaimed
in the sudden redux of antiphons
once scant now abundant.
We trail in our responses,
aligned to make delicate
the occasion we’ve met,
clutching our tapers so that
light, too, does not
more easily perish.
Window shopping
Cut figures shaped waxen
mirror intentions formed
of haphazard strolls down streets
love ill-mannered pretends them—
some ticketed green
of truant devotions come back this
garden of delights popular in what’s hoped for.
Most of it’s distracting, full of
stops and contrition
unripe statuary tends
those whose lives unfold
in service to lost ancestors.
But Time will come them who favour
this will to remark it—
we’re selves left as are to own devices
happenstance if birth
then recession cemented along
lines that dock us of valuables given.
Ready or not we wouldn’t have it
that smile half-shaped for the crowd to mumble,
a relic ambulating distance and emotion
the window gives toll to
as we gather and shop in the know
of what it’s wrought
an age post-capitalistic of booming abundance.
On a reading of Melanie Klein during lockdown
Projected selfhoods applaud
affirmations to the bone;
deep their solipsism broods
the selfishness they’ve caused
if wrapped around is a gift
their Others’ not wanted
but of loans disposed
to hearts who contend them.
They ride along
such subtle devotion
its violence that prospers
raw conditions suffering made norm
as Life is its truth when
pretensions implode
and grumble the heresies
politeness helps form
in softness mere cover
what tensions belie.
Avatar
Legitimate runs can’t handle
circumstances of commotion.
They get wind of escape through
worlds our falsehoods outmoding
as the real less tangible is speculated
more worth than this
daily plot thick
with the uninitiated.
But here:
burnt-out traces of corpse
project drop-offs
the mainframed redoubt-in,
lost to bigger cause
inhuman as much
the next one proposes
some new god its hereafters
the digital allots of
when embraced extensions
regulate newness pulled-out from
deathbeds their visions
that commonplace of norms
our postmodern living.
Monotony gone
deposits best colour
this mutiny
about us.
